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HEMLOCK TWIGS 

AND 

BALSAM SPRIGS 



BY 

JAMES PEELE PARKER 



BLACK MOUNTAIN PRINTERY 



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Copyright, 1921, James Peele Parker 



©CU652181 



Illustrations on pages 6, 10, 12, 16, 20, 22, 26, 
28 and 30 used by permission. 



Foreword 

A line or two for seeing eyes, 
A word for hearing ears, 

And in between a good wish lies 
For all the coming years. 

The Author. 



Page Five 



Here's to our Free-land, hail to her colors ! 

Here's to our High-land ! 

Here's to our Sky-land! 
Here's to our Home-land, surpass'ng all others! 



Page Seven 



Our Highland Temple 

With His own omnipotent hand, 

God has crowned our fair Highland 

With Nature's temple, vast and grand, 
Chis'ling aisles through granite gorges that men may to its 
altar come ; 

Has strung the forests into lyres, 

Placed the mountains for its spires, 

Turn'd sunsets into offering fires. 
Set the stars for lighted tapers, and truss'd the sky up for 
its dome. 

Hast thou crossed its lofty portals? 

Gateways fit for the Immortals, 

And e'er open to those mortals 
Who delight in Nature's friendship, who comrade with the 
wilderness. 

To learn that altar's excellence 

Hast thou trod in solemn silence 

Up those aisles in reverence? 
'Fore it knelt, with soul uncovered, confessing all thy little- 
ness? 



Page Nine 



Hast thou caught the ages' anthem 

From o'er the choir-loft's gilded hem ? 

And didst thou breathe a deep amen ? 
Hast thou loitered in the alcoves, hung with tapestries 
sublime? 

What ! Hast thou never felt the spell ? 

Had thy soul with inspiration well 

Beneath this Temple's organ swell, 
That keeps those silent alcoves quivering with melody and 
rhyme? 

Then come with me and climb to where 
We mount this altar's wind-swept stair. 
And let us bow in worship there, 

Rendering to its Master Builder all our sacrificial vows. 
Hast thou any offering brought — 
One new, one pure unblemished thought — 
That may in fervent prayer be wrought ? 

Then lift it up, and God will sprinkle incense from His bal- 
sam boughs. 



Page Eleven 




"Is Passiunate with Soi 



Spring-Time 

The Earth's great heart is throbbing fast, 
Her Hf e-blood's flow is strong ; 

She fears no more the Winter's blast, 
Is pass'onate with song. 

She folds the winds in loving arms, 

Smiles at the deep blue sky, 
Laughs at the storm-clouds' fierce alarms 

And drinks their burdens dry. 



Page Thirteen 



Craggy 

Yestermorn I saw the first bright gleam of sunrise place 
a golden crown on Craggy's hoary head, then watched in 
silent wonder as the warm descending rays furled a robe of 
purple glory over all his majesty. 

Last night, the * Frost King" marshaled all his allies 

forth and stormed the rugged pile from base to summit's 

topmost cliff, leaving there an icy helmet where had been 
the crown of gold. 

Today I saw that helmet catch the first red rays athwart 
the morn, and scatter them in silvery shimmerings to the 
waking earth and sky; then as the flood of sunlight slowly 
spread upon his widening slopes, the grand old mountain 
seemed transfigured before my eager eyes — behold a lofty 
crystal pyramid arose, whose glittering apex clove a drift- 
ing cloud, and whose brilliant whiteness well might rival in 
its purity, that of the Great White Throne of God. 



Page Fifteen 



Mount Mitchell 

Where Western Carolina's matchless clime flings loudest 
forth its challenge to the spheres, 

Mount Mitchell, thron'd in grandeur, sits above his dark 
majestic peers; 

Sovereign o'er all that beauteous realm where scenic won- 
ders never cease ; 

Proud Guardian of that gallery where Nature's hung her 
masterpiece. 

A million Summers' blossomings are wafting wide their per- 
fume from his balsam groves ; 

A million Winters' frescoings bear record in his bouldered 
coves ; 

And yet he's young — how young, who knows? 

Through future ages yet unrung, he'll be the firsi to mark 

the birth of each new day. 
And last to see its evening splendor into darkness fade 

away ; 
Through cycling seasons yet unflung, he'll watch the 

thunderstorm's wild frolic at his knees. 
And for satisfying toys, lend the tempest all his forest 

trees ; 
Through all the aeons yet unsung, his sceptre'll wave o'er 

Appalachia's towering crest. 
While floating clouds, to break their portless journeys, moor 

upon his breast ; 

Since when ? Till when ? God only knows. 

Page Seventeen 



Blue Ridge 

Between long sheltering arms thrust down to touch the 
racing waters of the upper Swannanoa, the Blue Ridge 
Mountains spread a deep and rugged lap to nurse a wild 
primeval forest. Beneath this forest's shade, ten thousand 
rich ungarnered harvests of leaf and flower and seed, have 
falbn into black decay that next year's harvest might the 
richer be. Here the native pansy lifts its freckled face be- 
neath the hemlock's tapering spar, and modest violets bow 
in homage at the great oak's chancel rail ; here orchids nod 
their curious heads beside the fronded fern and ebony stems 
of maidenhair lean close to the giant poplar's bole; here 
laurel shrubs their waxen cups unfold, and rhododendron 
thickets sift their gorgeous petals down; here the wild 
musicians of the cove select them each a swinging stage, 
and undisturbed by plaudits of a giddy throng, pour out 
their lives in rapturous song. 



Page Nineteen 




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'A Stately Shrine. 



Here, too, consecrated leaders among the students of 
the South, have given to the keeping of that ample lap, a 
foster child — have builded there by faithful prayer and un- 
remitting toil, a stately shrine. A shrine where every soul 
is urged to take the Christian High Priest's covenant, and 
enter unafraid within his own Most Holy Place — Blue 
Ridge, the Southern Student's sacred shrine ! Where every 
noble impulse of the human heart finds freedom in the very 
atmosphere, and inspiration leads through deep devotion's 
silent trails to large unselfish service for mankind; where 
all the reverential anthems of the soul swell forth, spon- 
taneous melodies of praise, and rise in sweet accord with the 
invisible organ of God's Great Universe. 



Page Twenty-One 



To the Swannanoa 

Where fold on fold the ancient earth hath cast her 
rugged bosom up to meet the bending sky, spring scores of 
laughing streamlets forth, that, trickling down beneath the 
fragrant hemlock boughs, leap granite walls to lose them- 
selves in gorges far below, then hurry sparkling out to find 
a common path, and bless this smiling valley with the music 
of a Swannanoa. 



I love to watch her waters lick 

The foot of yonder wooded knoll. 

And catch the wildness of her music, 
That grows yet wilder in my soul. 



Page Tiue?ity-T/iree 



To the Swannanoa 

Oh, Child of the Mountains, Oh, Child of the Sea, 
The sound of thy waters is music to me ! 
It stirs the emotions deep down in my soul. 
And awakens feelings I cannot control. 

'Tis freedom to walk by thy wild rocky side 
And muse upon fancies borne on by thy tide; 
'Tis freedom to sit on thy turbulent shore 
And dream of the scenes thou shalt witness no more. 

But look ! Look quickly ! Who now has appeared 

On the crest of that cliff, uncanny and weird ? 

Note the strength of his bow, the length of his spear, 

The pride of his bearing, the absence of fear. 

And how in his quiver the arrows are set ; 

Erect in his feathers, a dark silhouette ! 

'Tis a Redskin's spirit stands out in relief ! 

The soul of the bravest, a Cherokee Chief ! 



Page Tiuenty-Five 



He's come to revisit the land of his birth, 
Again to renew the sweet friendships of earth ; 
List to the welcome the breezes are bringing, 
Oh, hear the glad song all Nature is singing ; 
I, too, extend greetings, Proud Cherokee, 
My heart's in the chorus. Stray Soul of the Free. 

But gone are his huntsmen and gone is the game 
He's seeking in vain for, the White Man's to blame ; 
Gone, too, is the Chieftain, I see him no more. 
Yet he leaves thy rapids as wild as of yore ; 
And like a refrain from the Great Spirit's dell, 
Come these echoing words of his long farewell : 
''Rush on Swannanoa, through woodland and lea ! 
Still, the fields and forests pay tribute to Thee ! 
Oh, Child of the Mountains, Oh, Child of the Sea, 
The sound of thy waters is music to me !" 



Page Twenty-Seven 



The Seasons 

When Winter piles their gorges deep with snow, and 
makes of every summit's crowning crag a glistening miracle, 
they are good to look upon : when gentle Spring has touched 
the warming mould and coaxed each hidden root to flower 
forth, then spread abroad her emerald mantle over every 
naked twig and bough, they indeed are more than beautiful: 
but when Autumn gathers all the mellowness from all the 
Summer's length of days, and beneath the sunset's sheen 
of purple splendor, spills in reckless random over peak and 
ridge and cove, the choicest of her colorings — then, ah, then, 
even the Artist's brush or Poet's pen are tools too crude for 
usefulness ! 



Page Twenty-Nine 



Here's to the Land of the Hemlock and Spruce, 
Here's to her hills and her mountains ; 

Here's to the Land where the rivers unloose, 
Here's to her valleys and fountains ! 



Page Thirty -One 



iiiHim!!!.^."/ Ol" CONGRESS 



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